


A Knight in Dragon Armor

by maiaronan



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Class Difference, Dragon AU, Dragonrider Owen, F/M, Forbidden Love, Medieval AU, Multi-chaptered fic, Princess Claire, Raptor Squad is Dragon Squad, Rating May Change, Tumblr: forsurvivals, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiaronan/pseuds/maiaronan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sailor finds four dragon eggs on a castaway island. A princess tries to keep her kingdom from the power-hungry clutches of her suitors. Their individual paths inevitably intertwine in an old-fashioned tale of dragons and princesses and knights in shining armor. A Royal/ Dragon/ Medieval(ish) AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Claire was 16 years old when her mother died in a freak horseback riding accident.

Karen was a mess at the funeral. Even Claire couldn’t bring herself to chide her into regaining her composure as they stepped outside into the gloomy midday rain. It was a heart-wrenching scene—a young Princess Karen in hysterics and an even younger Princess Claire with a tight-lipped, chilling expression plastered on her wet face. The tabloids went into a frenzy and spent the next week trying to decode the stories and scrawl out articles on their “broken family ties” and “unsalvageable emotional state”. 

Claire went back to their palace that day and shut herself in her room. She knew she should be with her family, with Karen at least, comforting her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Zara, draw me a bath,” she said after her lady-in-waiting peeked into her room with the dinner tray.

“Your Highness, you should eat,” Zara suggested, placing the silver tray on her beside dresser. “It won’t do anyone any good if you pass out.”

“A bath first, please,” Claire insisted, crossing her legs and allowing herself to look more stubborn than heartbroken. 

Zara sighed. She’d been her lady-in-waiting since they were children, and she was pretty much the only person in the Kingdom who could tolerate Claire’s cold, unrelenting, headstrong personality. Not even Karen, her closest friend, could be in the same room with her for longer than a few hours without wanting to pull her hair out. 

Zara clicked softly with her tongue. “Skiddy, light the bathwater.”

Her words were met with a stony silence.

“Zara, how many times do I have to tell you,” Claire snapped impatiently. “Be nice to them for once and they’ll actually listen.”

Zara glanced at her nails and almost rolled her eyes. She’d just turned 14 a couple weeks ago and her age was really starting to show. “Skiddy, will you _please kindly_ light Her Highness’s bathwater?” she asked. Zara turned to Claire with a scowl on her face. “Is that any better?”

Claire watched out of the corner of her eye as one of the palace’s kiln dragons scuttled out of a crack in the stone wall. 

The kiln dragons were small, brown, resembling something like lizards with wings and very sharp talons. They’d taken up residence in the Kingdom shortly after the first settlers appeared, eating their table scraps and enjoying free shelter in stores and houses. It wasn’t long before they’d become domesticated fire-starters and formed a unique bond with their human landlords.

It was a precarious relationship between the humans and the kiln dragons. They essentially worked for the humans to keep their fireplaces warm, but they were intelligent enough to make their own decisions. Claire had an inkling of a feeling that the kiln dragons understood civilization would probably collapse onto itself if they didn’t exist—but then again, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that without a supply of fire and fast wings mankind would revert back to the Stone Age. She just hoped none of them would get the idea to dissent and leave them in the dark.

Skiddy, the nickname given to one of the kiln dragons that lived in Claire’s room, was partial to chocolate and silk handkerchiefs. The palace had no shortage of those, so he’d taken up residence in her place in exchange for lighting her candles and bathwater.  

The little dragon made his way to her bathroom, his talons clicking on the marble floor. Claire pressed her fingers to her temple as she listened to him light the fire underneath her bathtub. The familiar warble followed by a _whomp_ indicated that the fire’d been lit. Skiddy came out of her bathroom and peered up at her with curious, large yellow eyes. He blinked. 

Claire sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said to him. Skiddy warbled again. “No,” Claire said firmly. “I’m tired. Do me a favor and light the candles, will you?”

Skiddy snuffed, but decided to go easy on her this time. Maybe he could sense she was having a terrible day. The longer he'd spent as Claire’s favorite kiln dragon, the more difficult he was becoming to deal with. Zara would always say it’s just the dog learning from the master.

“But they’re dragons,” Claire would point out.

Skiddy went around her room and lit every candle until a soft golden glow washed over the furniture and fabrics. There was something incredibly pleasant about the kiln dragons’ fire—it was never too hot, never too bright, always a perfect golden flame that resembled little tiny suns. 

“Thank you,” Claire said as Skiddy snuffed at her again and crawled back into his hole in the wall. “Wake me up if anything catches on fire.”

Zara was rolling her eyes in the corner. “Why do you talk to them when you know they can’t talk back?” she asked as she started to undress Claire from her uncomfortable funeral robes. They felt like they were strangling her to death. 

“Because they take it personally if you don’t treat them like they’re 100% human.” Claire winced as Zara started plucking out the pins and elastics. Her long, red curls fell to her waist in a messy waterfall. “And when they’re offended, nobody lights my candles for a week.”

— — — — 

The media took an uncanny interest in Claire, writing her off as a future “ice queen”, with seemingly no heart or grief expressed for her dead mother. It was a race to catch her with even the slightest expression of empathy on her face. It wasn’t until Claire stuck a steak knife into a trespassing journalist’s arm that King Liam ordered higher security on the press. 

They eventually disappeared, and the public had just begrudgingly accepted Princess Claire to be as cold and stony as the castle she’d holed herself up in. Little did they know that the younger daughter of the late Queen Camilla had a storm brewing inside of her.

— — — —

Less than a year after her mother’s death, the King remarried. In a small, civil ceremony, a noblewoman by the name of Lady Beatrice became the new queen consort. Claire had no idea where she'd come from or how her father had the means of forming an acquaintanceship with a noblewoman of a lower class. But as much as Claire would complain, she knew the reality of the situation was that Lady Beatrice was more than determined to pick up the shattered remnants of a royal family Queen Camilla’s death had left behind. 

Claire, now 17 years old and on her way to becoming a woman, gave Beatrice little thought and care. She’d managed to stand up for herself within the last few months, taking the time after the funeral to reinvent herself. She’d become more distant, and even colder than she previously was (if anyone could imagine that). Although Claire was never an affectionate child, it was unsettling to see her ease into the persona of an even less affectionate adult. 

In less than three months, another wedding took place in the Cloud Kingdom’s royal court. Whatever lingering threads of warmth Claire had for her family were delicately snipped away as she watched her sister walk down the aisle, draped in a sickeningly white veil, and handed off to a man she’d never seen before in her life.

Karen was 6 years her senior and reaching the ripe old age of 23, which was apparently a big red warning sign to the members of high society. _She ought to get married before she turns into an old maid!_ The whispers carried into the empty court of the castle. 

Karen was never hard-headed or aggressively passionate like Claire was, and gave in easily when Liam approached her with news. He (and also  _Beatrice_ , as Claire suspected) had found an eager young suitor from a distant kingdom willing to claim her hand in marriage. From an affluent family, and more importantly, a wealthier throne, Liam wanted to give Karen to the House of Mitchell, as sort of a “generous gesture” (his words, not Claire’s) in uniting the two dynasties. 

Claire couldn’t feel more numb or frozen (or sick to her stomach) as she fought back the urge to scream at her fragile little family for inventing this cruel and twisted plot against them. At that point in her life, she was thankfully wise enough to understand that there was absolutely nothing she could do to change the situation. However, it didn’t stop her from thinking long and hard into the candlelit hours of the night about all the different ways she could help Karen escape from her inevitable wedding day.

“It’s my duty, Claire,” Karen said soothingly, although they both knew she never believed a word of it. “We always knew marriage was going to happen to us someday, and, well, now is the time.” Karen always tried extremely hard to fill the mother figure that Camilla left behind (in a gaping, yawning hole). Claire could say with confidence she never quite fit in those shoes, as hard and as earnestly as she tried.

 _Duty_ , Claire thought spitefully, as any 17-year-old would, but it sank deep into the pit of her stomach and nestled there for years to come. She knew she would have to follow in Karen’s footsteps someday. It would be her walking down the aisle in a heavy wedding gown, giving her life away to a man of nobility, and living out the rest of her life as a mother and wife. 

Duty. No, she didn’t ask to be born into this world as a member of the royal family, but she had to rise to the occasion and accept things as they were. 

“I can’t rise to the occasion and accept things as they are,” Claire sputtered to Father Simon one day, in the middle of her weekly confessional, trying to quell a fit of rage that was bubbling in her chest. It had been almost one full, miserable week after Karen’s wedding. “I know it’s my… duty…” She almost couldn't digest the word. 

“You’re young, my Princess,” Father Simon replied, putting a weathered hand on her shoulder. “It would do you good to open your eyes to the world outside of the palace.” Draped in his ceremonial robes, he looked more kingly than any king Claire had ever seen. Her relationship with Simon Masrani of the Church was a special, albeit strange, one. The reverend was eccentric, but not unkind, not uncaring, and not impatient with her. He’d administered Karen’s wedding vows, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to feel animosity towards him like she would with any other man of the church.

So Karen was whisked away soon enough to become queen of a new nation of people. For the next seven years, Claire only heard from her briefly in letters. Karen eventually had two sons, Zachary and Gray, two little princes with kind and innocent eyes, whose pictures would linger in Claire’s fingers late into the night as she wondered what it would be like to have her own children. She could almost feel a shudder rising through her shoulders, but she repressed it. Because it was wrong, wasn't it?

With Karen gone, Claire fell into a state of permanent loneliness and despondency. She found herself talking to Skiddy and the rest of the palace kiln dragons more than she talked to people (which she didn’t mind—people irked her nowadays—at least dragons were always fair and understanding, even if they couldn’t speak English). She spent a good portion of her efforts towards learning the ways of governing her kingdom. She became acquainted with the palace guards, the maids and cooks, the stablehands, the gardener, the servants, the mechanics, the messengers, the officers, and of course, the dragons. Claire’s mind was only attentive with the single purpose of serving her people. She wanted to know the best way to keep a kingdom of dragons and people together. At times she’d leave the palace gates, encouraged by the advice from Father Simon, and wander into the marketplace, mingling with the citizens outside of her home. She’d never talk to anyone in particular, but she'd spend her time picking up on gossip that she couldn’t get from inside the castle walls. She’d hear bits and pieces of hushed whispers about _dragon sightings_ and _oh god help us all did you hear that another one showed up near the border_ and _does the king know what to do with the army—_

King Liam’s health was ailing, Claire knew that, but even with her father showing up less and less frequently to meetings and even having her beginning to take his place, he’d never let her engage with the military’s business. “It’s simply not a woman’s place,” he’d insist as he barred her from reading documents and talking to members of the cavalry. “It’d be better for you to start looking for a husband elsewhere, my dear Claire.” 

She knew he was joking, but there was something in those words that rubbed Claire up the wrong way entirely. Even though Liam was careful to be honest with his youngest, Claire knew she didn’t know everything her father had to offer. Sometimes she had the urge to ask why Commander Hoskins of the 3rd Battalion would eye her like a raptor eying a piece of meat every time she walked down the halls of the palace, but then she'd think better of it and swallow her curiosity.

Life went on slowly for the House of Dearing, like ice melting in early spring. Life went on, oh so slowly, for a good two years, and Claire had almost accepted that her life was going to remain an autonomous affair filled with government meetings and the occasional ballroom dance where she had to wear ridiculous shoes and paint her lips red. Her kiln dragons (she’d accumulated more and more visitors to her room after she’d insisted Zara stop chasing them out with a broom) would watch her step into a flowing gown and feathery hat and she swears they would almost laugh at her, if dragons could laugh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully we can wrap up the exposition (sorry there's so much, that's the curse of the AU) within the next few chapters. We still have to get to Owen, that little bugger.


	2. Chapter 2

Icy cold winds whipped violently through Owen's hair as he clung to the mast of the ship, bracing himself for impact as another wave smacked the boat and nearly toppled the flimsy thing over. Salty seawater sprayed overboard. The boat dipped precariously. 

The waters were calm earlier that day and there was certainly no storm looming in the horizon. Owen had stuck to the shoreline, to his usual haunts. He was almost finished pulling up all the nets when the storm blew in from nowhere. And there he was, clinging on for dear life, the waves tossing him around like a feather in the wind. 

The notion of actually dying alone in the ocean briefly crossed Owen’s mind as the boat nearly rolled over into the freezing waters, but he shrugged it off as quickly as it’d come. Honestly, what would he be leaving behind in this world? His strong hands reached out to catch the ropes flailing wildly in the wind. He had pretty much next to nothing back on the shore—a small shack with few possessions he shared with his elderly, grouchy kiln dragon, Asher. The laughable amount of money he had saved up under a loose floorboard could be distributed between the residents of his fishing village—but Owen was almost positive they wouldn’t notice he was missing until he failed to turn up at the pub on Saturday. 

The bottom scraped rock and Owen went headfirst into the planks. Groping something nearby to pull himself back up, he found the side of the boat under his fingers. Squinting his eyes in the rain that continue to pelt his face, Owen stumbled to throw the anchor overboard as quickly as possible. As soon as he felt it hit the shallow seafloor with a thud, he took a flying leap off the rocking boat. 

Owen landed on the shorebed with a rolling impact. He pushed himself up and shielded his eyes. The storm got stronger still. 

He could see trees in front of him. 

Owen hadn’t the slightest clue where he was. Racking his brain as he ducked under the long, trailing branches of a low-hanging pine tree, Owen tried to recall the maps of the shoreline he’d spent hours memorizing as a child. He couldn’t have drifted that far out, right? Still, he was certain that this tiny speck of rock outside kingdom waters didn’t exist on his maps. Maybe nobody had ever found it before, that was entirely a possibility… 

The storm was quieter under the forest canopy, the leaves above shielding him from the rain. Owen shivered in his wet clothes as another violent bought of winds passed through the island. He had to get out of the cold before he froze to death.

Sniffling in the chill, he ventured farther into the undergrowth, sweeping aside thorny branches and leaves that whipped at his face. It wasn’t long before he found a clearing in the woods.

There was a jutting piece of black rock situated in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by yellowed weeds and prickly-looking grass. Some of the rock had crumbled into a heap on either side of it. It looked oddly out of place in the middle of a forest. Owen crossed over to it in a few quick strides, leaning down to inspect it.

The rock was smooth, save for a few rough indents on the sides of the surface. It almost looked like a black mirror, reflecting the raindrops as they splattered down from the heavens. Owen ran his hand over the rock. He immediately snatched it back.

The rock was _warm_.

Owen glanced around suspiciously, his hand reaching into the inside of his jacket for his knife. Had there been someone around recently? A fire nearby, perhaps? From the looks of it, there were no remnants of any fire pits or even any signs of ignition near the rock. Owen reached down and pressed his hand into the soil. There was a fine sand next to the rock, much smoother and powdery compared to the muddied earth of the forest floor. Curious, Owen ran his hand around the rock, creeping down on all fours, following the little trails of sand that surrounded it. Once he’d gone all the way around, he noticed the air around him was getting warmer. Putting his hands against the rock, he followed the source of heat until he discovered a crevice near the bottom of it. 

It was a large, yawning hole, with a peculiar warmth wafting out of it, big enough to slide a full-grown man through. Shivering as he felt the heat hit his dampened skin, Owen didn’t think twice about crawling towards it.

The air around it smelled musky, like a cross between dampened hay and a wet dog. It must’ve been a home for some type of animal at one point, but the scent was stale. 

Owen stuck his head into the den—what he assumed was a den, and hoped whatever had inhabited it before was long gone. When he was sure his face wasn’t going to get bitten off, he slid into the cavern.

His feet touched a mixture of gravel and softened grasses once he’d gotten inside. The rock was hollow, carved out to be almost like a cave over his head. Huddling against the wall, Owen closed his eyes and listened to the rain thundering on the roof. 

The cavern was oddly warm, as if it was impervious to the chilling winds that entered its entrance every so often. Owen was only half-curious to figure out what was creating the heat (he didn’t want to fall down into a lava pit or accidentally run into a man-eating bear, of course). And besides, he was finally out of the rain. Sometimes he just had to leave things as they were and be thankful for what he did have. 

— — — — 

Owen must’ve fallen asleep at some point. He was thinking about how he was going to get back, praying that his boat survived the storm, trying his best to forget the hunger gnawing in his belly, when he’d completely blacked out and later awoke to a weak filter of sunlight streaming in through the cave entrance. 

He shook himself awake, flexing his sore muscles and running a hand through his damp hair. The storm had passed, and the sun was out again. He took in a deep breath and crawled over to the crevice, ready to pull himself out of the rock. That was when he saw a glint of something shiny out of the corner of his eye.

Owen paused for a heartbeat, turning his head around, squinting in the gloom of the cave. The wind moved the tree branches outside just enough to let the sunlight pass through the narrow entrance again.

Another glint. 

This time, overpowered by curiosity, Owen turned his back to the entrance and crawled further into the cave. A sense of dread washed over him as he entered a suffocating darkness, and waited.

The thing glinted again, and Owen shot out his hand to reach for it before it disappeared into the dark. 

His hand touched a warm, rough surface. He let his fingertips slide over it, puzzling as he discovered it was shaped not unlike an… egg? 

It was a gigantic egg, he realized as he scooped the thing up in his palm, weighing it. He was sure it was an egg. It felt like a chicken’s egg, except much, much bigger, with a hard, thick shell that resembled roughened metal. 

Gently, he placed the egg on his lap, and reached further into the nest. His hand brushed the top of another egg-shaped thing, and another, and another.

Four? He picked up another one and wiped the dirt and grass off of it, feeling the bumps on the shell as he contemplated his next move. 

A stronger beam of sunlight shone into the den and illuminated the dusty atmosphere with a soft glow. Owen squinted his eyes, adjusting to the new lighting. 

His suspicions were confirmed. He could see four gigantic eggs lying in an even bigger nest, surrounded by moss and lichen and feathers. What could they possibly be? Owen hugged the one in his lap tightly to his chest. It almost felt like it was pulsating heat against his skin. Could it be that the eggs themselves were creating a heat source?

That must be the case, Owen decided as he crawled forward to fetch the others. He couldn’t see any signs that the adult creature had been here recently. No fur, no feathers, no bones, nothing to indicate that there was anything incubating the eggs. They must be able to hatch by themselves if they were able to keep themselves warm. 

Owen brushed aside more of the nesting material. Maybe there was a fifth egg, or maybe— 

Owen froze. All his disturbances in the cave had finally revealed something interesting. 

A giant footprint was indented in the soft sand of the cave floor. A giant, three-toed footprint with talons extending far past the tip of its toes—

_Dragon_. Owen’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in panic. He was in a dragon’s den. There was no dragon here now but… 

No, this wasn’t one of the little kiln dragons that lived in the kingdom and happily perched on beside tables while lighting stoves—this was a _wild_ dragon, one that could burn down an entire city with one fiery breath and snap a man clean in two with their razor sharp teeth—

They were elusive, mysterious, magical creatures and Owen knew (somehow he was still able to think about dragons while trying to escape the den) that every part of their existence were highly, highly valued. Some medicine men still swore that dragon bone cured all sickness and dragon blood granted immortality—all fluff and hogwash in Owen’s opinion—but nonetheless, their body parts sold for an unimaginable amount to those who sought them out— 

Yes, this could be his way out. Owen paused in the middle of setting the egg down. Who knows how much one dragon egg could sell for in the black market, much less _four_. He could end up possessing more money than the royals. The king would be feeding _him_ out of a silver spoon. Owen grinned recklessly. His heart soared at the thought of never returning to his run-down fishing village, of actually have a roof over his head that didn’t leak, of being surrounded by people who weren’t drunk all the goddamn time…

Once he’d managed to tuck all the eggs under his vest, praying that he hadn’t squished any of them, Owen wriggled his way out of the cave as quickly as possible. 

Careful not to drop any of his precious cargo, Owen fought through the forest’s tangle of brush and branches until he could see the coastline. His little sailboat was bobbing in the water, anchored where he last left it, looking slightly worse for wear but still very usable. 

With one fell swoop, Owen hurdled himself into the boat, then set the eggs precariously on an old, raggedy couch in the interior of the sailboat. He went back onto the deck and proceeded to pull up the anchor and unfurl the sails. The wind picked up and he set the course for the mainland. 

He watched, anxiously, as the island disappeared into the horizon.

— — — — 

_My dearest Karen,_

_Things are just fine back at the kingdom. The kiln dragons are behaving themselves and we’ve had a wonderfully fruitful crop season this year. I’m so glad to hear your pregnancy is going well. I wish I could come see you but I’m afraid I’ve been very busy lately. I know I shouldn’t try to hide anything from you for much longer, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you before this. Dad is not doing well. He wishes for you to come back and see him, but I know with your delicate physical condition right now it won’t be possible. I’m sure you’ve already suspected this was going on._

_Dr. Wu says there’s nothing we can do except pray for him. He doesn’t have much time left. He sends his regards and love._

_I miss you, my dear Karen, please write back whenever you see fit._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Claire_

 

Claire set down her quill with a heavy sigh. She folded the letter in half and sealed it with a wax impression of her ring.

The Dearing coat of arms. Three stags perched under a knight’s helmet, surrounded by decorative leaves and tassels. It was almost impossible to make out in the messy wax but Claire knew what it was. She’d spent her entire life looking at their coat of arms, after all.

“Karma, you have three seconds to get to your post before I throw you out for good,” Claire snapped as she waved the letter in the air impatiently. The aviary was empty, per usual, as the messenger dragons decided there were better things to do in life than deliver their human counterparts’ letters back and forth.

The messenger dragons looked much like the kiln dragons, small, lizard-like, large wings and talons, with a long, fox-like snout and a row of glinting sharp teeth. They were a sooty gray color instead of brown, and they were twice as light and agile in flight compared to the kiln dragons, who did better snuffling around on the ground. 

Karma, one of the newest additions to the aviary, popped her head through the open window. Warbling an apology (she hadn’t learned to give Claire attitude yet, thank God), the little silver dragon took her letter from her hand politely. 

“Karen,” Claire told the young dragon with a nod. Karma beat her wings and took off into the sky. “And let’s hope that one doesn’t get lost this time,” Claire muttered under her breath. She exited the aviary as quickly as she’d entered it, her long dress trailing the marbled floors of the palace. 

“Your Highness!” came a flustered voice from behind her. Turning, she saw Vivian struggling down the hallway, trying to keep her white robes out of the way as she made her way towards Claire. “Your Highness, if I may. It’s the King, Your Highness, he’s…” 

Claire felt a jolt of terror shoot through her chest. “He’s what?” she demanded as she ran to meet Vivian in the middle of the hall. “Is he alright? I’d just seen him earlier this morning…”

Vivian paused to smooth down her blonde curls before nodding breathlessly, “He’s requesting your presence, Your Highness.”

Claire felt a sheen of sweat slide over the palm of her hands. This couldn’t be good. 

The young medic led the way towards Liam’s bedchambers, making it painstakingly obvious that she was trying to ignore Claire’s fretful muttering. “I don’t think it’s anything serious?” Vivian suggested, clasping her hands together in a worried fashion.

“Not another peep from you, Vivian,” Claire growled. “I’ll have you and Wu out of this castle faster than you can blink.”

“He’s alive…” Vivian attempted to sound helpful, but the glaring annoyance on Claire’s face shut her up quickly. 

Claire pushed open the heavy oak doors to the room where her father had taken up residence since he’d become bedridden. It was a large, drafty room, with plain decorations and a dusty cabinet.

Claire was expecting Dr. Wu to be there, but to her surprise, the room was empty, save for a frail old man in a bed that was entirely too large for him. 

Vivian nodded at Claire. “I’ll be out here if you need anything,” she whispered as she closed the door behind them with a soft click. It echoed nonetheless.

Silence.

“Claire,” came a weakened croak from between the bedsheets. “Is that you?”

Claire gripped the sides of her dress. “Yes, Father, it is,” she replied, walking towards the bed slowly. She couldn’t explain why she was dreading this so much. She could feel a certain conversation coming on. One that she did not want to engage in. Claire was not particularly good with conversations about deaths and futures and legacies, namely her own, and she was definitely not good with having it come from her father. 

Yet, she arrived at her father’s bedside obediently, bracing herself for whatever was to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But where is the Clawen?!" you cry, shaking your fists impatiently. I know, I know. Claire and Owen will be meeting soon, hold onto your hats. Thank you for all your interest and lovely feedback on this fic!


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